


Nova Stella

by Suaine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suaine/pseuds/Suaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A werewolf walks into a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nova Stella

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published [on tumblr](http://suaine.tumblr.com/post/63073881303/prompt-handholding).

It was bright in the dream, so bright. Derek had half-heard Scott talk about the nemeton and how they'd found it in a stark white room, empty except for the stump of a very old, very magical tree. Still, he'd expected shadowy vines and the air of death, not the searing, all-encompassing light.

It felt like brutal truth.

The fear came to him like an old friend, squeezing imaginary breath from his lungs and holding his heart in wicked, ice-sharp talons. He had no time for panic or anxiety though and this wasn't about him. That thought made it easier to force his feet to move, to push his body – the construct that represented himself in the dream – through the thick light.

“Figures your darkness is a goddamn supernova,” Derek grumbled as he waded through the glare.

He had no destination and it was entirely possible that he was walking in circles or recreating the honey dance of a worker bee. There was no sound, no echo and his feet didn't quite feel the ground. Nothing smelled bad or good or at all. His senses were completely useless here and maybe that was the point.

Time passed. Probably. Likely not the same way it did on the surface, but he felt ancient, tired, worn down to a pebble.

He began talking, more to himself than to Stiles, but Deaton had said Stiles would be able to hear. Able, not necessarily willing. “Scott's pissed off that he can't be the one to heroically save your ass from your own stupidity. He says you should remember that he's your best bro and fuck the rules.”

Derek sighed as he remembered the panic of those first few minutes after their attempt, the way Scott had yelled at everyone but smelled of despair and guilt. “He would do anything, you know? Anything he could, even if that means settling for some second rate alpha to come and save you.”

The nemeton's magic had ruled out Scott and Allison for the rescue and Lydia took one look and said, “It won't work. He doesn't trust me.”

Which, of course, made the whole thing with Derek ludicrous because no one in their right mind should trust Derek. But still, he knew enough about Stiles, knew enough about himself, to know that this went both ways, that they were inexplicably there for each other when they needed it. It was a mystery of the universe, like snowflakes.

“I don't know why I'm here, why you'd want me here,” he said, quietly and a little scared. “But I'm going to get you out, okay?”

His voice was fraying a little, choked with emotion he rarely let himself feel. That's when he saw Stiles, the back of him, hunched over a little and very, very still.

Derek clenched his fists, half to stop them from shaking.

“Stiles.”

The young man didn't move or turn, didn't acknowledge him with a twitch or a flail the way Derek had become accustomed to – everything about the world seemed to constantly surprise Stiles, to rip him out of a fascinating train of thought and onto another.

Not right now. He was a statue, cast in iron. Or perhaps silver for the irony.

“Stiles,” Derek said, more sure this time.

“Derek.” That voice, even lead-heavy and slurred with confusion, that voice. It made Derek want to smile, to roll his eyes, to build a house and slam his head into a hard surface with frustration. Everything about Stiles was contradiction and intensity and Derek couldn't get enough. Could never get enough.

“I came to save you,” Derek said, just as the light around them dimmed slightly and Derek could see that the ground underneath them actually had texture, mass. And that it ended abruptly right there were Stiles' toes hung over the edge. That fall was a killer. Derek's imaginary nails dug into imaginary palms drawing imaginary blood – the pain was sharp though, real and tangible.

“I don't need saving.”

Derek nodded. “You're the strongest one of us,” he said, remembering all the times that being fragile and a little broken didn't stop Stiles from being stupid right alongside the rest of them. “But it's okay, you know? To ask for help. It's okay to need a little bit of saving sometimes.”

“Look who's talking,” Stiles spit out, resentment in his tone. “Mr. I can do this all by myself and don't even need to say goodbye.”

Derek flinched. “That was a long time ago. That's not me anymore.” He didn't add that with Stiles it had never seemed to apply in the first place. He'd always let him in.

“I don't need you.”

Derek closed his eyes, took a deep breath and stepped forward, right up to the edge. He didn't dare look down. He could feel the nightmares reaching for him anyway. “Yeah, well, maybe I need you. Have you thought about that? Maybe I don't want to do any of this without you. Maybe I can't imagine going through all this alone.”

Stiles snorted, viciously. “You've got your pack, and Scott. Don't give me that crap. He's your mystical werewolf bro and I'm just... I'm just this spastic guy who can't take a hint.”

Derek held out his hand so it was in Stiles' line of sight, palm up and open. “Then take a hint. Scott told me once that you walked into a puddle of gasoline and a held a trigger-happy, magically suicidal werewolf by the hand.”

Stiles shivered. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that it doesn't matter which way you decide to go, I'll be right there.”

“Derek, no. You can't.” Derek heard the quiet echo of not for me like the ringing of a bell.

“It's my choice,” he said, quietly, thinking of all the times he hadn't been given a choice at all, had been pushed and cajoled and seduced into a life of pain and regret. Not this time.

“Please, take my hand.”

And in the harsh brightness of the dream, Stiles did.


End file.
